Thing is, my mind will still be working, typing out the stories on 'imaginary screens', I'll be looking into the grille in the corner of my cell, which would become the Live Updates box, "Someone is reading your spoof news story: Monkey Woods Continues Writing Bullshit From Jail", never-ending lists of viewers all clamouring for my latest works, my brain, teeming with ideas, pressure building, Hadron Migraines chewing me up, can't stand it!

What do you mean "imaginary screens"? They're right over there....can't you see them? The blinking cursor hanging silently in space demanding another parody to mock reality. No, not that one...the other one. Yeah, that's it.

Take David Duchcovny checking himself in for sex addiction; like him you have to take these withdrawals one day at a time. Soon, the cursor will stop demanding satirical tribute and you'll be free to surf porn.

Can't get that anymore. Not since the royal famiy got whacked by the crown prince. Try what I do: get committed for 30 days at a time. Unless you can type in a strait-jacket and smuggle a laptop in rectally, that'll cure ya.

Not fit to exist in life OR death? So, what am I suppsoed to do...LIMBO? I have heard of this Gnarly Eric. Tales regarding the magnitude of his gnarliness even reached to the far shores of Alaska.

You, however, were merely thought to be a myth. A fairy tale. A drunken, incoherent shaggy dog story, slurred across the bar. An unfortunate denizen of the tar pits dying with the last unicorn held firmly by the throat so that you shall not die alone. An unviable human-alien hybrid. A lost toy in the back of a drawer of religious artifcats.

I should welcome Limbo to life or death if your presence is required. That is, if I were not a Sophist, knowing fully that you, sir, do not exist for anyone.

But, Gnarly Eric, there was a funny girl. Oh yes, "Gnarly Erika" was one of a kind. You are two ummatching kind.

"I do want you to die horribly. In real pain. Not 'fake' pain. Not 'pretend' pain. Like in the movies. f**king movie bastards."

Jesus, Budda, that was harsh. To die in horrific pain would put me into an altered state that would allow for Enlightenment, such that I would rival even you for dominance of the Afterlife. And you don't want that.

I'm not sure how the sexuality would emerge on the otherside, unless it was something like the Hindu Deity Shiva, the Bitch/Dick Goddess/God of Destruction. Afterall, that's what I do on this side.

You are a man. Accept it. Live with it. You are ok. Not quite 'alright'. It takes time before you get an 'alright' pass from me.

You are a stupid f**king bitch.

I don't know why I said that. I really don't.But you are. A male bitch. I don't know what the amle version of bitch is. A prick? Ok, then you are a prick.Again, I don't know whay - but it just seems the right thing to say.

Alaska?Yeah, whatever.

f**k off and die.

Helena Christianson

Reality dictates otherwise. Or maybe not. Could be. Don't know why I said that. Make the voices stop!

I will NOT post the images you send anywhere - just for my research then I will delete them.

Carina sent me hers already and she is ALL woman - thanks Carina - I have deleted the images.

I certainly appreciate your great sacrifice. You give the term "taking one for the team" an entirely new meaning.Still, I wouldn't feel right putting you through all that. But, I'll provide two gender-centric responses to your request and let you decide which door you want to choose.

Door 1:

1) Oh my, I couldn't possibly do that without at least a bikini wax.

or Door 2....

2) On my, I couldn't possibly fit that on just one picture.

There is a Door 3, but that involves gender-bending responses like, "is that a really large <fill in the blank> or a really, really small <fill in the blank>". Take it from me...you don't want to go into Door 3.